Now
by starboarder
Summary: With the Underworld behind them, Emma and Killian talk about the future and Emma asks Killian to make her a big, if sensitive, promise. Set after the Season 5 finale, this Oneshot offers some much-needed "Captain Swan Domestic." Spoilers for Season 5.


Now

The sun is going down by the time they make their way back from Granny's, let themselves in through the white gate, and amble up the front walk as if they've already done it a hundred times before. It's late, but instead of going inside, they sit down together side by side on the porch steps. As her head finds its way to his shoulder and his arm wraps around her, Emma tells herself not to look back. What is past is past, and the darkness is behind them now forever. The white fence glows before her in the dusk, the streetlamps flicker on one by one.

Their lives have been so noisy, so harried, that it seems an unspeakable luxury to just sit quietly, doing nothing but enjoying each other's presence without the weight of some fresh calamity hanging over them. It occurs to her that for most people this would be considered normal, and she feels a sudden longing for the mundane, for a simpler life or at least for some symbols of normalcy to carry her through the next crisis. She looks at the front yard, the view of the street, unremarkable enough except for the hidden fact that it's populated with characters from her childhood bookshelves, then she turns, looks over her shoulder at the house. The house that is to be theirs.

"What are you thinking?" he asks her.

"Can we get a porch swing? Or maybe Adirondack chairs, those could be good too, don't you think?"

In his smile is bemusement.

"Whatever you like, love. But what's prompted this penchant for decorating?"

"We'll need somewhere to sit."

"What's wrong with this?"

"No, not for now, for the future."

He lifts an eyebrow, curious.

"I was thinking... I was picturing us a few decades from now, on this porch. How maybe we'll come and sit out here in the evenings, in our cardigans and velcro shoes, and I'll be knitting socks or doilies or something else silly and superfluous, and you'll sip from your hip flask and yell at the neighborhood kids to keep off the lawn. And we'll be old and grumpy and wrinkly, and the younger kids will be a little scared of us, and the older ones will roll their eyes or give us the finger, but we won't care." She meets his eyes and is suddenly embarrassed by the sentimental torrent that just gushed from her mouth. She feels her face go red and laughs, nervously.

"Sorry, I know that sounds ridiculous."

"It doesn't sound ridiculous at all. Not to me."

"Really?"

"It sounds like Paradise, Swan."

"Don't tease."

He shakes his head. "Do you remember what you said to me before, in Camelot? You said you wanted a future with me, in this house. You said I just had to want it too."

She feels the warmth leave her, the color drain from her face and her heart gives a twinge as his words pull her back to that night. "That feels like a million years ago."

"But you do remember?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, I want it – that future. I want cardigans and velcro shoes, whatever those are. I want those decades with you."

She wants to laugh and to cry at the same time, but somehow she manages a hoarse reply.

"I want them too."

The half-choked, half-whispered words vanish so quickly on the breeze that she is unsure he heard them. But after a moment his arm unwraps from around her, his hand finding her hand. His fingers reach to entwine with hers.

"Then let's have them. We can have them."

"Can we?"

She wishes she could share his certainty, but part of it still seems impossible. She has wanted this for so long, before she even knew she wanted it. She wanted it in New York, when happiness meant a crowded apartment with Walsh, before she knew who he really was, or even who she was. She had wanted it with Neal, too, in some childish, naïve way, when home was a stolen yellow Bug and nights spent in cheap motels. Those had been just fragments of dreams, pieced together in a scarred, cracked impression of the real thing, but she remembers the despair when they were snatched away from her, and a nagging fear murmurs that this time will be no different. That she will lose it again: this life she can imagine so clearly, which she desires above all else.

But she has already lost it, already lost him and let him go. She has already surrendered, abandoned herself to the sorrow of emptiness and defeat. She has already learned how to grieve, and how to somehow keep on, to keep breathing even while she lay pressed up hard against the solid, cold rock-bottom of complete heartbreak. There existed nothing lower, no depths beyond what she had reached. And so they had both risen, she back to the land of the living, first in body, then in spirit, and he, at long last, too. They had borne what had to be borne, had accepted what seemed inevitable and not looked back. And the reward, the prize for that endurance was this. This present. This now. This evening, with its stillness and its soft breezes and its sense of hope, of possibility.

"You know we can."

He answers a question she has already forgotten she asked, but his words ring true. They remind her of all they have achieved, all they have overcome. No obstacle or foe has yet presented itself that they could not vanquish, together.

She knows this knowledge should hearten her, give her fortitude, but she is so tired, and her heart has felt so much hurt of late. She is tired of the fight, the constant vigilance and struggle that living in this town demands. She knows now that she can survive the unimaginable, that she can lose everything and keep on fighting, but it is knowledge that weighs heavily on her. She doesn't feel ready to give up, exactly, but she never wants to feel that crushing burden again, and knows she would do anything to avoid it.

"What are you thinking now?"

"I was remembering how it felt to stand there, in the cemetery... I just can't get that sight out of my head. Your gravesite. Your name on the stone."

"Emma, don't."

"I'm sorry. I can't help it. You know they buried you before I even got back from the Underworld? I missed the service, I missed everything. And then I show up at the cemetery to the sight of that turned earth, those pitiful flowers... You deserved better."

"Hey." He turns his gaze to hers, his eyes catching hers intently. "I'm not there, love. None of that matters because I'm not there. I'm right here."

"I know." She is struck anew by the miraculousness of this fact and without thinking she embraces him, just to be sure it is fact, to feel again the warmth of his arms around her, the realness of him – a solid, living, breathing presence beside her. When at last she releases him, she knows what she must say.

"Back in Camelot, when Henry told me about Operation Light Swan, he said something else. He said you saw this house as a promise."

"Aye, love. That I did. I still do."

"Then let it be this: Promise you'll never make me let you go, not ever again."

"Emma..."

"I'm serious. I've lost you too many times, and if something happens again, if you don't let me go after you, don't let me find you..."

"There will never be a need."

"How do you know that? How can you be sure?"

He shrugs.

"Without you, this house – our house – would be empty for me. This wouldn't be a home. So I need you to make me this promise, Killian. Please."

There is a weariness in his eyes that she doesn't recognize, a look of resignation, but his voice is calm and even when he speaks.

"Very well. I promise. You don't ever have to let me go."

He sighs, and she can see what it has cost him. She realizes that he has misunderstood her. He doesn't understand that she isn't asking what she might have asked, once. She is quick to set him straight.

"I have a promise for you too. From this moment, I swear I will never do anything to compromise you, or change you. I love you for you, and I couldn't ever do anything to jeopardize that, to hurt what we have. I made that mistake before and it nearly destroyed us both. I care about you – I respect you – too much to do that again."

He is silent a moment, taking in what she's said. His heart understands, but his mind cannot quite grasp it.

"So you're saying, if Camelot happened again, tomorrow..."

"I wouldn't try to change you. But I wouldn't let you go, either. Not alone, at least."

He shakes his head, slowly. "No. That's too much, Emma. For me to ask, for you to give. That's too great a promise."

"I don't think so." She looks at him earnestly, her eyes meeting his intently. "You are my True Love. We know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. But what's the point of it - of any of it - if we can't stay together? I want a future with you no matter where it is. In this house, in this town, or in another realm, or at the end of all realms. Of course I want it to be here, but at the end of the day I just want it. I want you. You want me too, right?"

"More than anything."

"So do you still think it's too great a promise?"

He cannot think of anything to say that would express the depth of his gratitude, or his love for her, for this woman who loves him so selflessly, so completely, so he leans in for a kiss and for a few long moments neither of them have any thoughts left for more asks or answers.

"Tell me again, Swan, how it will be."

"How what will be?"

"Our future." He smiles at her tenderly, and she is reminded for the thousandth time why she loves him. "I want to hear more about us growing old together."

"You already are old."

"I want to hear about being ancient, then."

She nudges him teasingly, then leans her head on his shoulder. The sun is gone now, the night descending fast around them. In a few minutes the stars will be out, and maybe she'll ask for an astronomy lesson, or maybe they'll be ready to go inside by then. Her heart gives a flutter of anticipation, but she pushes it down to pulse, warmly, in her belly. All in time. It will all happen, in time.

"Well, we'll be regulars at the Early Bird Special at Granny's."

"Oh, without doubt."

"And we'll never miss a Bridge Night at the Senior Center, but you'll win so often that some of the other old folks will suspect you of cheating... which might be true."

"Just natural talent, love."

"I'll make a weekly nuisance of myself showing up at the Sheriff's station to give unsolicited advice and tips..."

"...Which Neal will gently take into consideration and then drive you home."

"And you'll let me in the door and won't even have to ask where I've been."

"Because we'll have already had the conversation a hundred times before, how you're supposed to be retired and that means it's time to leave these things up to the younger generation."

"But I never listen."

They pause and share a smile, one that is knowing and a little sad.

"So I don't bother scolding you because I know it's of no use."

"No, you just brandish the Storybrooke Mirror and resume your ongoing rant about the atrocities of modernity..."

"Until you shut me up."

"Like this?" She sneaks in kiss, playful at first, but he responds with ardor.

"Mm, a lot like this."

The night is quiet, and there is nothing and no one to interrupt them, so they kiss again for a long time and then hold each other close for a long time after, silent, gazing at the dark sky.

"It's your turn now," she says at last.

"My turn for what?"

"To tell me what you're thinking."

He looks down, smiles almost shyly – an expression so rare she is seized by it, like a star burst in her heart – hesitating before he speaks.

"I was thinking... we don't have to wait decades, or even one more day, to have it. We already have it. This is it. The future we talked of, the happiness you saved me for. It's right now."

Not long ago, Emma would have been ashamed of the tears that spring to her eyes, that will not be held back but flow freely down her face. There are still many things in her past that bring her sorrow, embarrassment, regret, but she feels none of those now. There is no weakness in her reaction to his words, or in the fact that the declaration in her heart is greater than a mere "I love you".

Her visible emotion – or perhaps, equally, her silence – causes doubt to sweep over his face, an uncertainty at odds with his speech.

"I have got it right, haven't I? We are happy, aren't we?"

She merely nods, but the gesture is swift, emphatic, and it proves enough to reassure him. In his smile is pure, unfettered bliss.

"Good."

Despite her tears, the lump in her throat, Emma summons her voice, and to her surprise, for the first time in her life there is no hesitation. "You say I saved you. But you saved me too, Killian." she whispers. "You save me every single day."

As he did once before – in another realm, another lifetime, it feels now – he reaches to brush the tears from her eyes, his fingers lingering a moment, two, on her cheeks, and she knows at her very core, in the deepest chambers of her heart, that he is right. They already have it. It is right now.


End file.
